“No,” he immediately says, stepping away from me and my offer.
“Please,” I say, poking my hand at him. “Like you said, we’re friends. And friends go dutch. The only way you’d have paid for me is if it was like, a date or something, so…”
“Was that why you were sending me the money?” he asks, the hurt misting his eyes. “To make sure that I knew it wasn’t a date?”
I nod. “I sent it because that’s what friends do.”
“So, wearefriends.” His words sound sad in the way they lack hope, filled with resignation instead.
“Yeah,” I finally say, realizing that if anything can come from this, it should at the very least be a friend. Someone who I feel safe and comfortable around. “Of course we are.”
“Grace,” he pleads. “You can let me pay for some drinks without…it’s fine,” he adds after a hesitating pause. He gestures a hand toward the money. “I get it, but you don’t have to do that.”
I hesitate for a second and nod, placing the money on the counter where it sits under a figurative spotlight, showing how the word ‘friends’ still doesn’t seem like the accurate word to describe what’s brewing between me and Andrew.
He exhales a defeated sigh. His frustration weaves into my heart, and my determination starts to waver. Guilt starts to spread its way to my bones, and it blurs all the lines I decided to draw between us. I lift a hand to his cheek, wanting to smooth away any resentment that may lie between us. It’s risky, but I can’t let him go like this.
“I really am sorry,” I whisper.
He turns his face, planting a wet, gentle kiss into my palm. And I give, just a little. Just enough to put to bed what was never meant to be. I lift up onto my toes, brushing my cheek againsthis. When I pull away, I see how the mask Andrew was wearing has fallen to the ground. Gone is the cocky, flirty man I had one drunken night with. In its place is someone I somehow don’t recognize yet understand completely.
He takes my hand in his, letting my fingers rest over his palm. He looks at it like he’s committing it to memory. Every line, every crease.
“I’m sorry too,” he finally says.
CHAPTER NINE
Grace
My eyes are focusedon the Styrofoam container holding some leftover salmon rolls. Accompanying it is a single serving of miso soup and a pair of chopsticks. All of it a reminder of last night. Andrew did the respectable thing by sitting with me until we finished our sushi and left, leaving me the leftovers. “For your lunch tomorrow,” he claimed. He told me about his day at work and the irksome errand he ran picking up his boss’s car from the shop, adding an inconvenient coffee run to it when his workload had already piled high on his desktop. He asked how long I’ve had Buster when Buster nudged his nose into Andrew’s hand, begging for some food, and I told him his sad adoption story from the humane society. We exchanged a few surface-level stories, not diving too deeply into subjects that left us knowing details about the other that felt too personal. Things I shouldn’t know about him and things he shouldn’t know about me.
During the brief moment when we forgot—or rather set aside—our confusing tryst, it felt nice to have company. I enjoyed having someone to wind down and share a meal with instead of the frigid silence and Buster’s insistent eyes. It made my nightfeel light and fun rather than the usual morose tone it carried until I went to bed, alone.
When I finally walked him to the door, he bent down and placed a small kiss on my cheek. It didn’t feel underhanded or misleading. It felt like I was saying good night to someone I cared about. Someone I considered a friend. I went to bed with a hollow divot in my heart. Like Andrew scooped out a small chunk and took it with him, making me want to know if he got home safe.
“Hey!”
My head perks up at the sound of my coworker entering the breakroom. I instinctively sit up straighter, as if I’ve just been caught red-handed with the thoughts of Andrew brewing in my head.
“Hey, Jayne.”
Jayne, the other social worker in our ER, plops herself in the seat across from me. “What are you having today?” she asks, peering over my lunch.
“Just some leftover sushi. You?”
She procures a large glass Tupperware container from her lunch bag. “Matty made some alfredo,” she tells me, showcasing the appetizing pasta her husband made. “Want some?”
“I’m good,” I tell her, shaking my head. I start poking away at the sushi, remembering how delicious it all tasted. Surrounded by Andrew’s warm laugh and easy conversation, I didn’t feel ambushed. His presence didn’t feel like an imposition and waves of regret kept hitting me unexpectedly. He was sitting in front of me, thoughtfully chewing on a piece of edamame, and I kept thinking about him leaving. How sad I’d be to see him go home. Since he left, with a painfully wistful smile, I’ve been trying to come up with ways to make it happen again. But, of course, I hadn’t thought of exchanging numbers with him. With myconfusing refusal to entertain another night with him, having a more concrete form of contact felt risky and almost immoral.
I look at the clock on the wall to see my lunch hour is up. I start collecting my trash, leaving Jayne with her double serving of alfredo.
“I’ll see you on the floor?”
“Dr. Noah wanted to talk to one of us,” she informs me as I’m stepping back out. “I told him we’d check in with him when either one of us are back.”
“Dr. Noah…” I repeat, trying to place a face to the name. “Why don’t I remember who that is?”
“The new one from Vegas?”
